


Two times Crowley helps someone else, and one time someone helps him.

by SwordSoup



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gender troubles with god?, Homophobia, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Self-Harm, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-16 07:10:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19313188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordSoup/pseuds/SwordSoup
Summary: Or - Crowley is part demon. He really shouldn’t be doing any of this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You might’ve come to this fic after scrolling through tags, or you might’ve come because you read my last story.
> 
> Either is ok! This doesn’t really have any spoilers for the first story in this series yet - though the last chapter will. I’d tell you to go back and read the first story, but it’s ok if you don’t want to. Aziraphale Crowley are still the same people, it’ll make about the same sense.
> 
> Enjoy!

On some random Friday, some random week, not long after apocowasn’t number two, Crowley does something completely normal.

He stays over at Aziraphale’s flat - something he does almost every day now.

They proceed to get blackout drunk, and Crowley falls asleep after stealing some of Aziraphale’s pajamas.

The next morning, things seem rather odd. Nothing too out of the ordinary - yet the aura surrounding the shop feels off, as if some book has been left with a page bent, or some mouse has fed on the spine of some particularly rare book.

It doesn’t sit well with Crowley - he can feel the change like the change in air before a storm, and it sits at the bottom of his head like a pit as he goes about his day in what he hopes is a normal fashion.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s voice echoes from the room adjacent to the bookshop - his study.

It’s a Sunday, meaning the bookshop is closed, it’s never-bought books left to sit.

Crowley roams the shelves aimlessly, reading the odd ends of random paragraphs and filing away random love poems to mock later. “Hrm?” He grunts, tipping his head towards the room to project his voice.

He’s currently reading a poem about frogs - because for some reason humans have some sort of odd fascination with love, and kissing frogs.

There’s a pause before Aziraphale responds, and Crowley’s fingers still against the yellowing parchment as he waits.

“Do you think I’m a glutton?”

That stops Crowley entirely.

He quietly closes his book, sliding it back onto its shelf just as Aziraphale does, and then walks from the room.

“Zira, love, what in the _blue balls_ are you talking about?” He wonders aloud, incredulous.

He walks up to Aziraphale, who holds his head in his gloved hands, glasses sliding down his nose.

The sun outside is overcast by clouds, and the grey light to the room does nothing to improve the mood.

He snaps his fingers and a lamp flicks on, yellow brightening it ever so slightly - for Aziraphale’s sake, really.

The scene would’ve been lovely, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Aziraphale sounded, and almost looked like, a kicked puppy.

“Do you think I’m… fat?”

You see - to Crowley, Aziraphale was perfect.

He was the best he could ever be - there was no improvements, because he was already the most ethereally gorgeous being to exist.

But in Aziraphale’s personal view of himself, he was large. 

”Angel, _What?_ ”

Aziraphale turns to him, eyebrows drawn together and mouth open slightly in a look of miserable curiosity. “Just… answer the question, please.”

Crowley doesn’t even hesitate for a second.

“Angel, you are literally perfect.” He puts a hand under his lovers chin, looking down into his eyes, his gaze a hardened stare. “You don’t need to be perfectly thin to be beautiful. Human standards are - are... are pathetic - that’s what I’m saying. You’re not a glutton.”

“But…” Aziraphale shuts his eyes, running a single gloved hand down his face, ashamed. “I just… wouldn’t you like me a bit more of I were… a better size?”

No, Crowley would most definelty not.

He knows with absolute certainty that no, he doesn’t wish that Aziraphale looked a speck different. Right now, though - his mind is occupied with another thought other than that.

That thought continually running through Crowley’s mind right at this moment is: Fuck Gabriel.

The prick had been in hell for a while now, working his way through his job, trying desperately to regain his status as angel - and failing miserably. He was selfish, and a rather horrid person, and all that Crowley could associate with him was a pile of burning trash.

His silence must have made Aziraphale worried, because he turns away from Crowley, nodding slightly. “It’s ok. I understand,” he says, tone a broken whisper.

“No!” Yelps Crowley, tugging his arms away. “I was thinking of slaughtering Gabriel, that’s all! Love, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known! I don’t wish you were different at all - everything about you is great. Better than great - it’s blessed perfect!” He throws his arms up at ‘blessed,’ eyes wide beneath his sunglasses. 

Aziraphale sniffles, then takes a glove off and rubs at one at his eyes, shining with tears left unshed. “Crowley… you needn’t lie to me.”

“But I’m not, Angel. You know it - I couldn’t lie to you - not like this.”

Crowley falls down onto the balls of his heels, knees bent, eye level with Aziraphale at last.

“You are - well - Zira - you’re unbelievable.” He winces. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re...” he grumbles.

“Ineffable. The best thing to have ever happened to me - or to this world.” He draws his arms forward, putting them gently on Aziraphale’s shoulders.

Straightening, his angel speaks, wiping his face of emotion eerily quick. There’s a hurried pause before he speaks again, the words breaking Crowley’s heart even more. “Sorry, dear. Just a moment of weakness,” mutters Aziraphale, shakily. “ _Sorry.”_

“Nrg, no, you don’t get to be sorry,” Crowley growls, looking very un-convincing in his ‘kiss me I’m Irish,’ shirt he’d thrown on as pajamas at Aziraphale’s request.

“It’s fine to be emotional - insecurity is...” He thinks for a moment - something he rarely cares enough to do.

“I wish you didn’t have it. It’s just another unfair piece of bullshit thrown into this world. But you do have it, and that’s not out of the norm for most people even if it’s bullshit. So, if you have it, talk about it. With me. Please.”

Aziraphale laughs, watery, then his face falls back into a pensive look. The sun breaks through the clouds, illuminating the angels back and haloing his unruly curls. “Ok. I suppose I must, if I want any more kisses from you, you half bastard.”

The smile across Crowley’s face is a toothy one, but completely foolish - not anything like a demon’s.

He stands up again, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s hand before drawing away slightly, leaving one hand extended for Aziraphale to take. “Exactly,” he replies, enunciating each syllable ridiculously. “Now, cmon angel. How do you feel about frogs?”

Things aren't going to be perfect immediately, Crowley knows that. This one conversation hasn’t fixed everything - but that’s ok. He promises himself - he will be there for Aziraphale. He will be there for his love.

So, they go off to the Ritz, completely disregarding the dress code and _maybe_ sneaking a little miracle in order to get in.

Aziraphale’s laughs as Crowley reads off the frog-poetry like music to his ears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of a silly one - not exactly that angsty. I hope it’s ok anyways - it was actually really fun to write.
> 
> I’ve been working on making sure I’ve got Crowley in character, so I hope his interactions with children make sense lmao. 
> 
> Anyways, here’s chapter two.

It’s a ridiculously beautiful day outside.

Each flower bends to perfection, the sun drawing them in like children to sweets. The forests surrounding Tadfield glow with fresh green, the animals within them grazing and hunting peacefully.

All is right, as Crowley and Aziraphale stroll to Adam Young’s house, hand in hand. 

And if they’re mouth to mouth for a moment as well, no one sees. 

The back gate has been opened to reveal a party in full swing, no matter how small. Brian chase after Pepper, shouting her name and attempting to poke her with his stick as she yells back - telling him he’s being an idiot as she trips over Wensleydale - who follows behind Adam. 

It’s Adam’s birthday, and for some reason entirely beyond Crowley’s comprehension, the boy had insisted they come. Much to his parents' chagrin, after telling him that Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley were probably too busy to come - they’d arrived. 

Aziraphale had been the one who bought the gift. It was a book on “Strange and unexplainable World Phenomenon” that he thought the child might laugh at, seeing as he’d managed to cause two of the newest additions to the pages.

Every single addition had  _ something  _ to do with occult and ethereal beings, really. That includes the great dancing plague, the invention of acid, and the realization that dinosaurs have feathers. A surprising amount of those additions are from angels.

“Hello, Mr. Fell,” says Adams father - Mr. Young, as he shakes his hand, grip firm and warm. “It is so nice to meet you. And you too, Mr. Crowley,” he says brightly, turning to shake his hand.

“Erm - Yeah, same to you,” he replies awkwardly, shaking his hand. “And Crowley is fine.” He’s astounded at how  _ normal  _ the antichrists parents seem to be. 

Mr. Young nods slowly, then gestures to the table. “Oh, well, there are refreshments and whatnot over there, if you’d like. No alcohol - it is a children’s party. Gifts will be opened in an hour.”

Crowley nods while Aziraphale does the rest of the talking, then goes and sits at the table, watching the children pull a worm from the beaten turf, cradling it and re-burying it in a nicer spot.

Aziraphale sits down across the table, occupying himself with an accidental conversation of golf with Mrs. Young - a very average conversation topic for what he hopes will be an average party.

The Young’s were nothing if not average - all except for their son, of course.

Crowley is wondering what the bloody hell he's doing here for about the sixth time in the past ten minutes alone, when he feels the bench he’s sitting on dip. He turns his head to see the girl - Pepper, if he remembers properly - which he always does - sitting next to him. 

“You’re the demon one, aren’t you,” she says matter of factly, squinting up at him against the sun.

“You don’t need to be so bloody  _ loud  _ about it,” he grumbles, readjusting in his seat to look down at her. “But yes. Well - I used to be. I’m more of an inbetween thing now.”

“Oh? That sounds stupid.”

Snorting, he looks back down at her, raising an eyebrow. “Does it?”

“Yes. Inbetween a devil and an angel doesn’t seem very real.” 

She sips from a cup of water, then turns back to him. “Well, now that I’m over here, can I ask a question?”

“Ngh?”

“What does God think about gay people?”

Well, that’s a bit of a tricky question. 

You must understand - God doesn’t give a damn who anyone loves. From the beginning she’d expected those sorts of relationships to come about - she’d welcomed them. 

And anyways - why would she be so angry about trivial human relationships? That’s Chamuel’s job.

How does Crowley know all this?

Being an angelic and demonic Seraph and a bridge between two worlds does have its perks.

(He had coffee with Metatron once. Less of a prick when he’s not a blue floating head. Also good for getting info on God from.)

But, the question is especially tricky, because Mr and Mrs young haven’t an inkling of an idea what Crowley is - and he’d rather not go driving the antichrists parents insane if he talks about God’s real views too loud.

He’s had enough of the apocalypse or apocowasn’t for one lifetime. One was too many - three is just  _ overkill,  _ in his experienced opinion.

Pepper must take his pause as a push to go on, so she does. “It’s just that… I called Mrs. Flannagin’s daughter pretty, but then she told me she couldn’t talk to me anymore because I was acting like a faggot. And I think it’s rather stupid that women should be forced to take a man. That’s a stupid part of earthly expectations.“

“But - but she really  _ was  _ pretty, and what if God really does hate me? Which I think would be stupid - but Adam says I should avoid calling God stupid.” She looks back at Crowley, her young face looking more worried and old than any young face ever should. 

“First, I’ve got quite a few naughty words to spout at Mrs. Flannagin.” He points at her with a single crooked finger and continues his languid tone. “Repeat em  _ only _ if you’ve got to, girl.” 

She listens on in ernest as he begins his rant - calling her a “crooked hag with a shitty mind,” except it’s longer, and he includes quite a bit more language she wouldn’t understand. He mixes some Latin in there somewhere, and her gaze lapses to confusion till he ends. 

“Second, God doesn’t give a damn about who you love.” The sunglasses on his eyes slip down and he pushes them back up, only allowing her a small glimpse of the strange glint in his golden eyes.

He grimaces at the delighted smile she shoots him. 

“She doesn’t care - for  _ anyone’s _ sake - she’s an ethereal and omnipotent being of power and light that  _ just so happens  _ to take on human pronouns when it so fits her. I mean - why’dya think she doesn’t kill every third gay person walking down the street - cause she doesssn’t care.”

“So anyways, seeing as she doesn’t seem to want to smite me when I tell my boyfriend he’s tolerable - I’m _pretty_ _damn sssure_ you can keep my word for it.”

The girl nods, wide grin refixed against her sun-flushed skin. “Ok, Mr. Crowley. I think you’re right - Mrs. Flannagin is stupid.” She stands, taking one last drink from her glass and smiling wider - in a sneaky way that strikes fear into the heart of any human adult. “And stupid cool curse word too - even though I already knew it. Thanks anyways.”

She runs off and Crowley leans back, splaying his limbs back out again and ripping his head back, listening to Aziraphale talk about subjects he doesn’t seem all too interested in and basking in the sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pepper is so good in canon I love her she’s hilarious
> 
> Edit: GOD SAYS HAPPY PRIDE


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this one got kinda long. Probably because ouch, my headspace is stinky right now and writing angst (lot and lots of angst) is a good way to distract myself.
> 
> Also, beware of spoilers for the first fic in this series. You definitely don’t have to read it, cause you’ll be able to read this chapter and understand what it is and what’s happening anyways. Just if for some random reason you care about getting spoiled, then watch out lmao. 
> 
> ALSO also: beware of some way heavier stuff in this chapter! This is where the self harm tag comes in - it gets dark. 
> 
> I hope that it’s a satisfying conclusion!

Midnight is a strange time.

For those beings that sleep, midnight means sagging eyes, twitching fingers, “just five more minutes mom,” and probably some rather sad thoughts swirling in their heads.

It’s no different for Crowley, despite the fact that he is both ethereal and occult, and technically shouldn’t sleep. The darkness of his flat is oppressive, dripping down on him like holy water.

What is he doing at his flat, instead of at Aziraphale’s?

Well, Aziraphale had volunteered Crowley’s house as their meeting spot tonight. He said it had a much better video system for them to watch the newest release of some book based TV show Crowley was only watching for Aziraphale’s sake.

He didn’t like it much - it was almost a children’s show. Nope. He could stomach bunnies in stop motion at the theater, but it’s not like he  _ liked  _ it, right?

Anyways.

Aziraphale had gone out to buy some groceries a few minutes earlier - leaving Crowley to wonder if he’d even get as far as inside the store, seeing as it was passing midnight.

A hissing sigh escapes his lips and he stands with jerking movement, wandering out of his room with hands shoved into jean pockets he had yet to change out of.

The lights stay out, bulbs cool and indifferent, as are Crowley’s eyes. He knows his way around his home like he knows the inches of Aziraphale face - it’s not hard to maneuver where he can’t see.

A tilt of his head sends his gaze shooting to a mirror, shining with enough moonlight to illuminate Crowley’s face in the darkness. His eyes shine brightly between the swaths of black, and he frowns at them, walking away. 

It hasn’t really been that long since the second apocowasn’t, the most ridiculous attempt at an apocalypse since a bunch of teenagers the street down tried to kickstart Ragnarok.

The events of it all still seem unrealistic, and on nights like these, Crowley has taken to reminding himself that  _ yes -  _ he had died, and he had become a half Seraph - a beacon of unimaginable power and light - but also demonic, the first of a kind, because God said “screw it, I like him.” 

Wings of silver and fantastic nature unfurl against his back, the unfamiliar mix of a heavenly and demonic clashing hideously to create the Seraph. He rolls his fingers through the feathers, each of his six wings bristling as time drags on.

Sitting on the couch he continues cleaning them, plucking feathers that have dropped and only shuddering a  _ little  _ at the thought of that fateful night - with the occultists, with Gabriel - with Hastur. His wings still burn occasionally with the feeling of the stakes driven through them, and the horrible crack of his bones. The feeling of the feathers they’d yanked from him still resonates within him, but preening is a necessarily evil. 

“Why do I still have these blasted eyes,” he mutters to no one in particular - or maybe, to God. “You changed my wings, why make me keep the eyes.” A scoff blows out from chapped lips, annoyed. “They’re hideous.”

“Can’t they be sort of angelic? Instead of these bloody snake eyes?”

“I didn’t mean to fall, and I didn’t mean to half-unfall.” His hands pull harder against his wings, curling against the feathers. Ones that had never been loose start to pop out, and he relishes in the feeling of the pain - bordering on losing himself to the memories of his wings being torn apart. 

Dark, off-gold blood like something unnatural as Crowley should have starts to drip down the silvery-blue, and he pulls his hands away, shaking.

“No.”

A mournful expression passes against his face - promptly disappears, then an angry one leaps on behind it. The feathers fall from his fingers, the blood falling with them.

“No.”

He claws at his eyes, angrily rubbing at them till spots run rampant against his vision and the area around them is red and raw - but he keeps going. Angrily, he shouts, jumping from the couch and grabbing his sunglasses and throwing them against the wall, the crunch of the glass falling sickeningly loud against the pounding in his head.

The front door opens as he falls to his knees, still scrambling at his eyes. 

“Crowley?” Calls Aziraphale, and if he’d been listening, the mixed-Seraph could’ve heard the drop of plastic bags against stone-cold floors. “Love, are you still awake?” 

He stares at the now very-unholy statue Crowley had stolen from that church, years ago, and walks onwards to the study and the source of the quiet noises he can’t quite make out. 

But Crowley isn’t listening - he’s sitting with his knees against the ground, still scratching at his eyes in a horrible attempt to yank them out. He’s frantic and feral - like an animal caught in a trap, and he can’t help the tears that begin to drift down his cheeks. 

“Crowley!”

Aziraphale’s sharp shout isn’t enough to startle Crowley from his actions - but his lover’s arms yanking his hands away are. “Crowley - dearest, what - what are you doing?”

They paint quite the picture - the two of them. Crowley, sitting on the office floor rug, his knees pointing opposite from each other, back slumped over and wings drooping, still sluggishly leaking small amounts of blood. Aziraphale, holding Crowley’s arms in a firm grasp, terrified eyes fixed on Crowley’s reddened, hollow ones. 

“Oh… oh,  _ Crowley…” _

He drops to his knees just as Crowley falls apart, wilting into Aziraphale’s neck and sitting there, not making a single sound yet shaking like a leaf.

Aziraphale releases his arms to pull him into a gentle hug, arms folded perfectly around his wings with practiced precision. He runs his hands over Crowley’s back gently, letting the half-angel rest his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The scene would’ve been beautiful.

It would’ve been beautiful - if Crowley hadn’t had silent tears rolling down his cheeks, and if Aziraphale wasn’t so stricken looking, and if he hadn’t been staring at a pile of silver feathers piled against the ground. 

“Crowley?”

—-

Halfway across the world, in Spain, a rather large band of disbanded occultists feel a sharp shock of someone’s anger pierce them - and for the first time since that angel had attacked their former clients - they fear for their lives as much as they fear hell.

Aziraphale doesn’t particularly enjoy scaring people - but in this case he thinks it’s warranted. 

—-

There’s no response - Crowley just drops his arms down and sinks lower.

“Crowley, can you look at me?”

He does, moving his head from Aziraphale’s shoulder and looking at him, eyes red and puffy but still intact.

“Oh dearest… why?”

“I think you know,” is the answering croaks, bitter. He looks back down with an ashamed look. “They’re  _ hideous.  _ Don’t deny that, Aziraphale.” 

Actually - Aziraphale will deny that vehemently. Crowley’s eyes are gorgeous - the shocking almost-honey yellow as familiar as his bookshop or, well, anything.

So, he states just that.

“Wh - Crowley, What? Your eyes - your eyes are beautiful!” He puts a hand against Crowley’s cheek and he looks up. “Love, your eyes are - are Satan damned beautiful!” A watery chuckle passes his lips. 

“No - no, Zira, they're -  _ unnatural, _ ” Crowley all but spits, like venom from the maw of a snake. “I’m - I’m not a good demon, or a good angel - I’m not enough of anything to be bloody anyone. 

“These eyes - they’re just a filthy reminder of how God couldn’t love me enough to find someone else to fix  _ her  _ plan!”

He glares at nothing Aziraphale can see, stare far off - detached. Jaw clenched, he folds his wings back out of view. “It’s just - I’m - I’m not much of anything at all, besides a  _ pawn  _ and - and a -“ he loses his words and grapples for a handhold against a landslide of emotion - waiting to dash his body against a sea of pain at the bottom of a cliff he slips down. 

But he doesn’t.

Aziraphale holds him steady, with warm hands settled softly against his back and gentle aura radiating from him.

“Crowley, I won’t be a liar - life, and God, have been unfair to you.” He winces, then relaxes at no sign of being struck down. “You deserve so much, my dearest, and no one has quite managed to give you it.”

“But to start with something small - your eyes are beautiful. Your wings are beautiful - they always have been, even before you had three pairs of silver ones. The black suited you quite nicely as well.”

His arms untether themselves from Crowley’s back, but before he can sink to despair they latch themselves onto his shoulders, firmly bracing him in the real world. “You were an angel and a demon both, respectively - at some point. At each point you were very bad or very good at it. At each of  _ those  _ points, you were, at the core, still you.”

“You don’t need to be firmly  _ good  _ or firmly  _ bad  _ to be an angel or a demon - we’ve proven that. And you’re certainly a wonderful person at heart, you’ve demonstrated that many times. You’re both a bastard and a good person, but that’s the best way to be.”

Silence rings out, but it’s less suffocating than the moments before. 

It’s finally 1:00. 

“Now, will you let me take a look at your wings?” Aziraphale asks gently, and Crowley nods, unfurling them.

The silence is stillness, but it’s a warmer one as Aziraphale checks the damage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it? I don’t usually write hopeful endings like that, but I hope I made it a good balance of sadness and “hey, things are going to get better!”
> 
> Anyways - I really do hope you all enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t actually done a fic in this format before. I hope it’s ok - I’ve always kind of wanted to try it. As always, drop me a comment or kudo if you’d like!


End file.
